That Awkward Moment
by Xx.Triple A.xX
Summary: When your arch-nemesis gets amnesia and you end up having to take care of him because otherwise he's pretty much guaranteed to run off and do something REALLY STUPID. Like steal a loaf of bread, maybe.


**A3:** WHAT IS THIS, Fanfiction? I go away for (checks calendar) a ridiculous amount of time and now there's this shiny new sidebar thingy? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS

_YOU'VE CHANGED_

Uh, in other news, HEY! I know I haven't updated any of my old stories in progress... recently... at all... and here I am starting a new one! Isn't that, like, the cardinal sin of this website or something?

B-but this one will be REALLY GOOD. You guys will like it SO MUCH that you'll forget I haven't updated anything else. In, like, ever. ...I hope.

Okay I'm gonna shut up now and go hide behind my sofa

**Disclaimer: **Oh wait we have to have one of these things DON'T WE. Fine, I don't own Les Mis! I just own the soundtrack for the musical. And the sheet music for the musical. And the unabridged copy of the book. ...Which I haven't read. I READ AN ABRIDGED COPY THOUGH SO IT'S ALL GOOD, QUIT LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

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><p>It was a dark and stormy night, and this only added to Javert's irritation at the fact that he was currently getting mugged. Or was the victim of a mugging <em>attempt<em>, anyway.

He ducked underneath a heavy-handed, clumsy punch and landed a blow of his own in his assailant's stomach. His was fast, powerful, and perfectly aimed, and should have caused the mugger a considerable amount of pain.

"_M_ –!" Javert bit back a profanity as he darted away, shaking out his hand in an attempt to relieve the pain he had inadvertently caused it. Punching the man had been like punching a brick wall – an experience that Javert was, unfortunately, familiar with.

The man remained unharmed, advancing upon the inspector with the same placid determination that he had possessed since he had first attacked him 5 minutes ago.

Javert dodged another badly-aimed but immensely powerful blow. Not for the first time, the thought crossed his mind that it was off that his assailant was emitting absolutely no noise at all. He didn't speak, nor did he make any sounds of effort or pain.

Taking a risk, he decided to try and come at the man from behind. A crash of thunder sounded as he ran straight at his assailant, then feinted to one side and dashed to the other, his by-now sodden coat swinging through the air behind him as he moved.

This proved to be his undoing. His attacker made a clumsy grab that hit home. Fingers clenched on wet wool, and Javert found himself brought abruptly to an extremely unpleasant halt. He was then swung around and thrown bodily into a nearby building.

The bright flash of light that followed was either lightning or the natural reaction of Javert's body to being flung into a building. As he pushed himself up off the ground, he heard something that inclined him to believe it was the latter.

"Javert? Are you alri – _LEAVE HIM ALONE_!"

Javert struggled to his feet. Everything hurt, but he was paying less attention to the pain and far more to the fact that he _knew_ that voice – as well as the person to whom it belonged.

Jean Valjean, the escaped convict he had been hunting for years, picked up a large and very heavy plank of wood (Javert couldn't imagine why anyone would have left something like that lying around in the first place) and swung it at the mugger's head.

To the surprise of both Javert and Valjean, the man stopped it with one massive hand, wrenched it out of Valjean's grasp, and delivered the same blow to the ex-convict that Valjean had been attempting to deliver to him.

As Valjean crumpled to the ground beneath the massively powerful blow, Javert's searching hands found the rarely-used police whistle that he never went on patrol without and brought it to his lips.

At the sound of the whistle's piercing shriek, the mugger froze – it was amazing how incredibly still he suddenly became – and then took off running down the street. Javert blew the whistle once more, then staggered over to where Valjean lay on the street.

"Valjean, get up." Kneeling by the ex-convict's side, Javert prodded at him. "Get up, 24601! You're coming with –"

He broke off as he noticed the blood beginning to pool beneath Valjean's head. An unbridled profanity flew from his lips at the sight.

"Oh, _HELL_, no. No, you are NOT going to DIE out here, not _now_, not before I've captured you – dammit, Valjean, it's WET out here!"

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><p>Policemen came in response to the whistle. Javert sent some of them off in the direction in which the culprit had fled, though he had no doubt that the man was already long gone. Still, it didn't hurt to be thorough. Others assisted him in taking Valjean inside his own apartment, which was near the scene of the crime.<p>

Once they had him lying on Javert's bed – the only large enough flat surface that wasn't the floor – Javert dismissed them, among protests regarding his own well-being, and set to work dealing with Valjean's injuries. Considering the force of the blow and the size of the plank, it was incredible that Valjean was not more badly injured – or worse. The only conclusion Javert could draw was that the plank had struck him only a glancing blow.

As Javert put the finishing touches on the ex-convict's bandages, Valjean woke up. There was nothing gradual about it; his eyes simply snapped open and he was awake. His gaze met Javert's and held it for a long moment; then he spoke.

"Who are you?"

Javert stared at him, and then anger surged inside his person. The convict was not _seriously_ playing this game with him. _Him_! Inspector Javert!

"I don't know, 24601," he returned, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "You tell me."

"My name's not – it's not –" Valjean faltered. Through his suspicion that Valjean was putting him on in a last-ditch attempt to evade arrest, Javert began to have doubts. The ex-convict's gaze was surprisingly blank, and Javert had seen enough expressions carefully schooled to _be_ blank that he knew the difference between genuine and fake. Something would always, without fail, give the latter away – especially if you chose what you said with care – and that something was entirely absent in Valjean's case.

Javert recalled with a growing sense of apprehension and slight horror that Valjean had been hit in the head.

Valjean's look turned desperately confused and pleading. "I – don't – I don't know _who_ I am…"

The sense of horror was cemented. "OH, _HELL_, NO."

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><p><strong>A3:<strong> This is a belated warning informing all readers that this story, as is obvious, contains mild profanity. I'M 18 NOW, I DO WHAT I _WANT_. ...this is a lie. There really won't be much profanity at all. So set your minds at ease! Honestly, keeping them at attention all the time, that's just cruel.

...That was a bad military joke, did you get it

You did

OKAY

This story will get more exciting, it will. Also it's AU. Which means I CAN DO WHAT I _WANT_.

...Again, this is probably a lie


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